


I'll love you 'til the sun dies

by CharlotteDaBookworm



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anything is better than Wall Duty, Basically married, Canon Compliant, Comfort, Established Relationship, Family Fluff, Fluff, Foreshadowing, Galahdian Culture (Final Fantasy XV), Grief/Mourning, Hair Braiding, Happy, Idiots in Love, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII can cook, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 07:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17741720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlotteDaBookworm/pseuds/CharlotteDaBookworm
Summary: Moments between a King and his Glaive, from the beginning to the beginning of the endOr, Regis and Nyx and the years in-between





	I'll love you 'til the sun dies

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own ffxv, the title of this fic comes from 'Little Do You Know' by Alex and Sierra

Regis throws himself out of the car as it pulls to a stop, kingly decorum tossed aside.

 

Clarus can complain to him later if he wishes to, because right now Regis doesn’t care.

 

He needs to see his son. Needs to know that Noctis is well.

 

Behind him, Sir Ostium curses near silently as he launches himself from the car, hurrying to catch up to him before he can move too far, but Regis pays the man acting as his guard no mind; fear and anger still surging in his veins as they have since he’d gotten notice that his son had been kidnapped. The second call less than half an hour later from Noctis himself had helped to calm his nerves a little but his heart will not settle until he sees his boy with his own two eyes.

 

Eyes that scan the street, searching desperately for Noctis, even as one of the Crownsguard tries to talk to him only for Sir Ostium to redirect the questions to himself.

 

 _Good initiative_ , he thinks distantly because the glaive had noticed that Regis is in no fit state to listen to a report at the moment and that he wouldn’t be until Noctis was in his arms.

 

And then he catches sight of his son.

 

He’s hurrying over even as he takes in the scene: his son, perched on top of a metal container just inside an alleyway, with an ice-cream cone in hand, chocolate splattered across his face and a grin on his lips as he directs the man crouched in front of him; the man in front of him, wearing a beat-up leather jacket and jeans and Galahdian braids and one arm in a sling, who has a knife and a block of wood that is somehow starting to resemble the figurine of Carbuncle that Regis had given to his son years ago despite the man only having the use of a single arm; and, to the side of them both, the unconscious, tied bodies of the men who had dared kidnap his son.

 

 _“Nyx_ ,” Sir Ostium groans from a half-step behind him upon catching sight of his son’s saviour. “You’re supposed to be on medical leave. What have you managed to get yourself into _this time_?” He says long-sufferingly, in the same tone of voice that Regis often heard from Clarus.

 

The words catch the attention of man and boy and both turn towards them. He barely has time to clock the slightly sheepish look on the man’s face before Noctis is yelling “ _Dad!”_ and throwing himself into his arms.

 

Wrapping his arms around his son, Regis feels some of the tension that has been building since he’d gotten the news dissipate.

 

Noctis is safe.

 

He’s safe and here and he’s okay, babbling in his ear about how _Nyx saved me dad! He was so awesome, he took them out so quickly and then he bought me ice-cream and he’s making me_ carbuncle _isn’t that_ cool _?_

 

Regis closes his eyes and tries not to weep in relief.

 

He turns to his son’s saviour - who he finally recognises as Sir Nyx Ulric of the Kingsglaive, on medical leave after injuries sustained in his last deployment - who is currently taking part in a near silent argument with Sir Ostium.

 

“ _Thank you_ ,” he breathes, because this man stopped to help when so many others would have turned away - sworn to the throne or not. “Thank you for saving my son. You’ll be rewarded for doing so…” he starts to say.

 

Sir Ulric stares at him, aghast. “I saw a terrified kid, your majesty, not a prince, and I helped him for exactly that reason. I didn’t do it for a reward, and if I hadn't have helped then someone should have just killed me because that’s not the sort of person that I want to.” Ulric and Ostium exchange a short look that he can’t quite read.

 

“Still,” Regis says, eyeing the sling and the bandages wrapped around the glaives head. “You saved my son at great risk to yourself. There must be some boon that I can offer to you.”

 

Sir Ulric just looks at him for a long moment before he throws his arms in the air, exasperated, and hisses _“Lucians!”_ incredulously under his breath as he turns on his heel and stalks away without a second glance.

 

Regis stares after him in slight shock at his reaction even as Sir Ostium sighs.

 

“Bye Nyx!” Noctis calls cheerfully from his arms, waving at the retreating glaive, and Ulric turns while still walking, giving his son a grin and a wave of his own despite the obvious irritation that lines his body.

 

“See you around kiddo,” Ulric calls back as he holds up the half-carved figurine. “I’ll show you this when it’s finished okay?”

 

His son nods, satisfied with that outcome, and waves again as Ulric turns away once more.

 

 _Sir Nyx Ulric_ , _hmm,_ Regis muses about this man who apparently cares nought for royalty and is good with children, willing to risk his life for a child in distress instead of calling the authorities, to take the time to calm Noctis and to cheer him up and listen to him talk. This glaive who looks at Regis with fire in his eyes when offered a reward for what the man views as doing what is right.

 

 _Interesting_.

 

* * *

 

Nyx has no idea how he ended up on bodyguard duty for the King.

 

He can’t say that he _minds_ , King Regis is a good man and assignments like this usually mean spending _less_ time around prejudiced arseholes, and Nyx can’t complain, it’s just. Guard duty is usually punishment duty for Glaives, and he hasn’t _done anything_ worth punishing lately. He’s been following orders, nobody outside of Libs has yelled at him for being an idiot lately, he hasn’t pissed off the Captain recently, and the sign that Pelna had set up as a joke _(Nyx Ulric has gone X days without being a reckless little shit)_ has actually reached a number in the double digits for the first time in _months_.

 

So, he just doesn’t really understand why he’s on guard duty.

 

(He’s considered asking, but the look on the Captain’s face when he’d gotten the orders had convinced him otherwise.

 

Despite what people thought, Nyx doesn’t _actually_ have a death wish. _Honestly_ )

 

Still, he’ll do his job.

 

Especially since anything is better than Wall duty. _Anything_. Even getting lectured by the Lord Shield who is doing his best to put the fear of the Astral’s in him before acting as the King’s shadow during a soiree full of politicians that nobody can stand on the best of days.

 

Nyx _really_ hates Wall duty.

 

This could be the most boring assignment in the world and it will _still_ be better than Wall duty.

 

Thankfully, it isn’t the most boring assignment in the world. Mostly because he gets to watch the - very pretty, why is he so _pretty_? It’s not _fair_ that he’s that pretty - King who has drunk more than Nyx is sure he usually does - and Nyx really can’t blame him because _nobles_ and _politicians_ and when you put them together you apparently got _idiots_ , and coming from him that’s saying something - and is apparently very flirty when tipsy.

 

And Nyx is always down for getting called pretty.

 

 _(Especially by a man that he might –_ might _, damn it Libs - have a little bit of a crush on)_

 

It’s an ego boost if nothing else.

 

But also because some drunk idiot actually decides to charge at yet another drunk idiot while _right in front of the King_ and Nyx gets to put the first idiot – who happens to be noble, one who Nyx recognises as a part of the group that views refugees as ‘taking the jobs of rightful Insomnian citizens’, and that makes it all the better - on the floor.

 

It’s not quite the same as punching people, but it’s still very satisfying and just rounds out the idea that this assignment is a hundred times better than Wall duty.

 

He doesn’t get to punch people on Wall duty. No matter how much he really, _really_ wants to.

 

And then he glances up at King Regis, still kneeling on the back of the drunk idiot, and swallows at the flash of heat in the man’s eyes as he looks at him. Looks at him like he wants to _devour_ him, and Nyx has to remind himself that the man is drunk, is his King, and is totally out of his league, and forces himself to look away.

 

He can still feel the King’s eyes on him for the rest of the night.

 

_(Nyx very much does not know how to deal with this. So, he doesn’t)_

 

 _Drunk_ , he reminds himself every time that the King flirts with him. _The man is drunk Nyx_ , he thinks as he does his best to remain professional. It becomes a mantra - King Regis flirts, Nyx reminds himself that the man is _drunk_ , and then he responds as professionally as he can because the King is _tipsy_ and as flattering as this is Nyx doesn’t go for tipsy people.

 

Tipsy people can’t consent.

 

But then he’s standing in front of the doors to the King’s rooms and Regis is in front of him, in the open doorway, cheeks flushed and laughter on his face as he looks at Nyx and _oh fuck, why is this man this hot?_

 

This isn’t _fair_.

 

Nyx meets his King’s eyes for the first time in hours.

 

“Do you want to stay?” Regis asks bluntly, that heat still in his eyes, and Nyx smirks - deciding that a little payback isn’t _that_ petty after a night full of flirting when Nyx couldn’t respond.

 

Lord Amicitia might kill him for this, because it totally went against the list of things that he is allowed to say to the King, but oh well. _Totally worth it._

 

“Ask me again when you’re sober,” he says, still smirking, before bowing and bidding the King a goodnight, leaving to return to his own flat.

 

He’s going to call Libs and complain about just how unfairly pretty the King is, especially when relaxed, because if Nyx has to suffer than his brother will suffer with him.

 

The next morning, Nyx finds himself back outside of the King’s rooms because he’s been assigned to guard duty _again_.

 

Even after he’d told the King to ask him again when sober last night.

 

He shrugs a little to himself before knocking on the door. _Still better than Wall duty_.

 

A voice calls him inside and Nyx can’t help but choke on a laugh as he looks at his King, sitting on one of the sofas that were scattered around the room with his head in his hands, obviously hungover. The man looks softer like this, more a man than a king despite the sheer _presence_ that still drapes around him like a cloak, and Nyx can’t help but appreciate the look.

 

Regis looks up at the sound of the stifled laugh, lifting his head from his hands. “Sir Ulric,” he says slowly, eyes running down his body and then back up again slowly. He smirks, green eyes _sparkling_ , and Nyx resists the urge to shiver. “I’m sober now and I believe that you are even prettier than you were last night.”

 

Nyx _blushes_.

 

* * *

 

 

“’s that my hoodie?” his lover mumbles, face nuzzling into his neck as arms wrap around his waist, hands slipping into the big front pocket.

 

Regis smiles playfully, leaning into the line of heat at his back. “Are you saying that this hoodie cannot be my own?” A deft flick of his wrist sends the pancake flying and he catches it neatly back in the frying pan with a sizzle; smile widening at his victory.

 

They both know that this isn’t Regis’ hoodie - for all that he does actually have his own, buried in the back of his wardrobe from his teenage rebellion years - but it’s warm and soft and he couldn’t resist it when he woke this morning.

 

Nyx grins into his shoulder, playing along, his breath tickling the hairs at his nape. “Oh, it wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve got one of your own stashed around here somewhere, but this one is definitely mine,” he says as Regis slides the pancake onto one of the stacks on the plates beside the stove and then shuts the heat off.

 

Turning in Nyx’s arms, he slips his hands under silk to rest them on the younger man’s hips.

 

“This coming from the man wearing my shirt.” He raises a sardonic eyebrow but can’t wipe the smile from his face at the sight of Nyx, wearing his shirt open over low slung jeans that _cling_.

 

The sleeves are rolled back and it hangs slightly off of his shoulders because of their height difference and it’s _Nyx in his shirt_ and Regis swallows back the possessiveness that he feels at the image that he makes, still sleepy and recently fucked and in Regis’ clothes.

 

His lover laughs, tossing his head back in a way that highlights the wide span of tan, scarred skin from neck to waist, and then smirks at him with sparkling eyes that make him want to drag him back to bed and pin him down. His hands clench tighter over his hips as he resists the urge to pull the glaive closer.

 

“I’d wear my own shirt, but _someone_ disappeared it last night and I have no idea where it is now.”

 

Watching Nyx with heated eyes, his thumbs rubbing circles in the skin over his hips, he shrugs. Regis honestly has no idea what happened to that shirt and he can’t say he _cares_ if this is the result. He pushes aside plans to ‘disappear’ all of Nyx’s so that the younger man would be forced to wear Regis’ own constantly.

 

“Breakfast?” He asks instead, because they both have places that they need to be today and those places aren’t his bed with this beautiful man’s braids spread out over the sheets as he- _Places to be, Regis_. _Places to be_. The King reminds himself. “I made pancakes?”

 

Nyx swallows audibly, the heat in his eyes banking but not disappearing as he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, pancakes sound good.” The hands around his waist loosen enough that he can pull away and grab the plates, the sleeves of the oversized hoodie he’s wearing slipping down over his hands as he does so.

 

He does hope that Nyx is not expecting this to be returned, because Regis will fight him for it at this point.

 

* * *

 

 

Nyx palms the blade carefully behind his back, running a finger gently over a freshly sharpened edge and absently tracing patterns in the metal that he could see in his sleep, finding comfort in the familiar leather-wrapped hilt.

 

He’s carried this knife for decades, since his mother had deemed him ready for live steel, and it’s saved his life - and the lives of others - so many times over the years that there is almost a part of him that doesn’t want to part with it.

 

But he’s also never been more sure of anything in his life.

 

Gripping the hilt - that he had re-wrapped days ago, in preparation of this very moment - once more, Nyx takes a deep breath and plasters on a smirk to hide the nerves that churn in the pit of his stomach.

 

He can do this.

 

“If we were in Galahd,” he begins slowly, choosing his words with care and keeping his eyes on the young - not so young, anymore - prince who sits directly in front of him, very purposely not looking at his lover who is sat beside his son. Regis had agreed to this, when Nyx spoke to him and asked, unsure of whether this was appropriate or not.

 

Insomnia is so different from Galahd and, even though he’s made a home here, even though he lives here and has for years, those differences still trip him up.

 

So, he asked his lover because he didn’t know and Regis had agreed but Nyx knows even now that he doesn’t really understand. That, beyond it being something that they do in Galahd, he doesn’t get the meaning behind a gift like this.

 

And Nyx doesn’t know how to tell him. Doesn’t know how to tell either of them. He just doesn’t have the words.

 

Because how do you explain something you just know, something that you’ve always known?

 

(Nyx has been trying to figure that out for weeks)

 

“Then this would have been given to you upon your coming of age on your fourteenth birthday,” he continues, grip tightening and then relaxing as he forces his body not to show any of the tension - _fear_ \- that he feels. What if he rejects the gift? Nyx doesn’t think he can take that. He shoves that thought away so that he can carry on. “But we aren’t in Galahd and mainlanders have some really odd ideas about coming of age and the legal age of adulthood and well, yeah, anyway, you’re all weird but here we are.” Cutting himself off as he starts to babble, Nyx smiles at the new eighteen-year-old and Noctis grins back.

 

Nyx relaxes, just a hair. This is Noctis, and this is Regis, and this is this part of his little family that he’s built from the ashes of his home. He can do this.

 

“By Lucis’ standards, little prince, you’re of age now. And that means that I can give you this.”

 

Flipping the knife in his hand so that he’s holding it by the blade, he holds it out to the boy who he thinks of as a son, hilt first.

 

Noctis reaches out to take it. “Nyx…” he says as he rests a hand on the hilt.

 

He grins, the tight knot of tension in his chest melting away as the blade leaves his hands. “This blade has guarded my life for as long as I have held it. And now I pass it to you, so that it may serve you just as well.” The ritual words leave his lips almost without thought and he knows that Regis and Noctis can both hear the importance of them even if they don’t understand the full meaning behind this.

 

That’s okay. He can live with that.

 

Everyone from Galahd, everyone who knows as he does, will understand the meaning behind his actions. Will understand the declaration - however informal - that he’s just made.

 

Nyx loves this boy as his own and he might not be ready to admit it out loud, but his people will know anyway.

 

Because Nyx has given him a blade, a blade tried and tested and used, a blade that he trusts and has saved his life. He’s given him a blade, just as his mother did for him, and her mother for her, and so on, throughout the generations.

 

He just has to figure some way of explaining this to the two Lucians in front of him.

 

* * *

 

 

When Regis walks into the room, his lover is standing by the bed.

 

Though to call it standing was an exaggeration; the nightstand is bearing most of the younger man’s weight as he clings to it, pale and flushed and shaking like a newborn behemoth calf. It’s a miracle that he’s even made it that far - though, from the look on his face, Regis can see that he surely regrets it.

 

But Nyx is far too stubborn to stop halfway and as Regis watches he steps away from the nightstand and promptly collapses face down on the bed when his legs don’t support his weight.

 

He groans and Regis can’t help his soft laugh as he moves over to him, placing the bowl of soup on the - now free of its human burden - nightstand. “Go back to bed, Nyx.”

 

“I can work!” Nyx protests, a faint scowl on his face as he twists his head just enough to look at him. From the way that his face rapidly pales and the sweat that breaks out, he immediately regrets doing so.

 

Regis ignores him, covering him with the duvet and rearranging the blankets around him. “My dear, you can hardly stand.”

 

Nyx pouts. “I can still work,” he says stubbornly, even as he shivers under a pile of blankets and the heavy duvet. One of his hands snakes free from underneath the blankets, moving to push the weight of them aside so that he could try to stand again, and Regis catches it and holds it, feeling the fever heat radiating from his skin.

 

“ _Rest,”_ he says - he asks, he begs - softly. “The glaive can do without you a day. Rest and eat the soup and get better, please, my dear. I do not like seeing you ill.”

 

He presses a soft kiss to the back of Nyx’s hand, clutching it gently against his chest, and a small smile spreads across his face as he _sees_ his lover melt and give in to his request.

 

“Sleep, Nyx,” he whispers, reaching out to brush his cheek and forehead with his free hand and his smile widens as Nyx leans into the touch. “When you wake, we’ll find something suitably mind-numbing to watch on tv, yes?”

 

“No Accordian dramas,” Nyx says with a sleepy laugh, his eyes drifting to half-mast as he clings to consciousness.

 

Regis laughs with him. “No Accordian dramas,” he agrees.

 

* * *

 

 

The carpet is plush and comfortable beneath his knees, the silk strands of his lover’s hair moving easily through calloused fingers as he kneels at the end of the sofa, braiding Regis’ hair with gentle, experienced hands.

 

Under his breath, he hums an old hymn as he braids; one taught to both him and Selena by their grandmothers when they were very small children, that featured in most of his earliest memories of them both.

 

It’s relaxing, braiding another’s hair, and intimate and Nyx cannot help the gentle, joyous smile that forms on his face at the trust allowed to him in this.

 

At the sight of his lover, sleepy and content and relaxed and a part of him - the part of him that needs to take care of others, to take care of his family - _preens_ at the knowledge that it was him who had put him in that state, wearing the braids of Nyx’s people, decorated with beads that he has made himself.

 

His heart warms at the picture he makes.

 

Nyx pauses in his movements for a moment, holding onto the braid as he reaches out to pick up another wooden bead from the bowl that sits on the floor beside him, knowing without needing to look which one he wants, and his lover’s eyes crack open slightly as he stops.

 

Regis grumbles sleepily, a hand moving to bat at him like a cat in an effort to make him continue, and Nyx laughs softly at the faint traces of a pout on his face. “Hush, love,” he says, his grin widening at the adorable sight of his lover half-asleep, no traces of the royal decorum ever-present outside of these rooms. He reaches out, brushing a hand - the one not currently holding the end of a braid - across his check. “Go back to sleep.” He whispers as Regis leans into the touch, the book resting on his chest long forgotten.

 

He snuffles, turning his head into Nyx’s chest, and Nyx melts at the action as Regis’ breathing evens out into sleep once more.

 

The bead slips into the end of the braid easily and Nyx ties it off one-handed, not wanting to move too much and risk Regis waking again.

 

Looking down at him, at this beautiful man who wears _Nyx’s beads_ in his hair, he can’t help the way that he leans down to press a kiss to his forehead.

 

Six, he loves this man.

 

* * *

 

 

When Regis wakes, the bed is empty.

 

This isn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence for either of them, for a variety of reasons: what with them both haunted by nightmares that drive them from bed often enough; with Nyx oft being deployed outside of Insomnia’s walls and even beyond that, or with him having early morning guard-shifts elsewhere in the city that required he leave early; with Regis having his own duties that regularly required that he leave long before his lover awakes; and with his partner still attempting to give the appearance of living in his own flat, despite having long moved into Regis’ rooms.

 

It isn’t uncommon for one of them to wake alone. But Regis has always slept better with another beside him.

 

And, while it isn’t odd, the absence of his lover’s presence is still enough to register.

 

Because he knows that Nyx has no shifts this morning, not with the treaty signing taking place later today. Clarus and Cor had arranged it so that almost all of the early shifts went to the ‘Guard so that the ‘Glaive would be prepared to act on anything that may occur during the event itself. And it was too early besides, for Nyx to have left for a shift or to return to his flat.

 

For a moment, Regis considers snuggling back into the duvet and going back to sleep, knowing that Nyx would join him again when he was ready. But, when he reaches out to check, the other side of the bed is stone cold; having been empty for a while, as it only is upon the worst of nights for either of them. That knowledge makes up his mind for him.

 

Regis slips from the bed, with only the slightest of regrets for the loss of the warmth, and grimaces as his bad leg twinges painfully as he stands. He sighs. A bad day then, on today of all days. How wonderful. Clarus will be delighted.

 

Wrapping a thick robe around his shoulders to ward off the early morning chill, he goes to search for his erstwhile lover.

 

He finds him quickly enough; Regis knows Nyx - knows how and where he likes to retreat to on days like these, days when he wakes with screams trapped behind his teeth and deaths playing over and over behind his eyes - and it’s easy enough to apply that knowledge now.

 

Nyx is curled up in a ball against the window, his side pressed to the glass as he perches on the window seat, with a chunky blanket - one that had made the move with Nyx - thrown haphazardly over his lap and a second, thinner, one tossed over his shoulders. He’s staring out at the night sky with red eyes, tear tracks that he made no move to hide slowly drying on his face, and clutching an elegant, _familiar_ hairpin in one hand like a lifeline.

 

Regis hesitates in the doorway for a long moment, uncertain of his welcome at the moment.

 

After all, his lover is mourning a woman that he himself had hardly known. A woman that Nyx had loved as a sister, who Regis had sent to her death, and there is every chance that his presence would just make things worse.

 

Seeing him like this - crying and alone - breaks his heart, makes him _ache_ to help, but Regis doesn’t want to cause him more pain.

 

But then Nyx shifts, uncurling slightly and lifting his arm - and the blanket - in an unspoken invitation that he was powerless to resist. Before he even realises it, they’re sitting on the window seat, pressed flush to each other with the blankets covering them both and with his bad leg propped out in front of them.

 

He smiles slightly as Nyx fusses with the blankets using the hand not holding the pin, making sure that they are both warm enough in the spring cold.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

 

Nyx laughs, the sound half a sob, and shakes his head. “Don’t be an idiot,” he says, reaching out to grasp his hand with the one that had been fussing with the blankets. “Crowe- Crowe knew what she was getting into. We all did when we made this choice.”

 

And if that, that resignation and bitter acceptance and tired understanding, doesn’t break Regis’ heart even more.

 

These people fight under his name, _die_ under his name, and there is nothing that he can do to change that. So, instead, he grips Nyx’s hand a little tighter and leans into his lover’s side and together they watch in silence as the sky lightens, and the stars slowly fade away and the sun rises.

 

They should probably sleep, they both know it; both know that today is far too important for them to be at anything but their bests. Regis can’t quite bring himself to care.

 

“I love you,” Nyx utters quietly, his voice echoing in the quiet between them, and there is a smile on his face. “I love you, Reg, and - whatever happens today, whatever happens with this treaty - nothing will ever change that. I will always be by your side, no matter what.”

 

There is so much _love_ and _conviction_ in that tone that he decides before he even fully realises it. “Nyx,” he begins to say, begins to tell his lover what he has been waiting to say - waiting for the right moment - for weeks, _months_ even, only to be cut off as Nyx’s radio chirps.

 

The words die in his throat.

 

Nyx sighs at whatever he hears but answers in an affirmative, untangling himself from the seat as the radio shut off. Standing beside him, he presses a kiss first to the hand that he still held, and then to Regis’ lips. “Sorry, love,” he says against his mouth. There’s a wry grin on his face as he pulls back. “I’ve got to go, the Captain calls. I’ll see you at the signing.”

 

Regis smiles back, squeezing Nyx’s hand once more before letting go. “Love you,” he calls after his lover, watching as he walks out of the room and trying to ignore the _despair_ that settles in the pit of his stomach.

 

The ring in the pocket of his robe burns.

 

They still have time, he reminds himself as he stands to dress for the ceremony. They have the whole of their lives ahead of them, he can just ask him later, when they aren’t so busy. Once they have gotten through whatever trap it is that Niflheim has set.

 

Tonight, he decides, tonight he’ll ask Nyx the question that he’s been wanting to ask. And, for now, he’ll deal with the teasing from Clarus over still not having asked.

 

A few more hours will make no real difference, Regis assures himself, not when he's been wanting to ask for so long.

 

They still have time.

 

* * *

 

 

No, they don't.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit clunky and I honestly don't think that it flows properly, but I've been working on this thing for over a month and if I work on it any longer I might just scrap it all and give up, so have it as it is.  
> Because we need more Regis/Nyx in the fandom even if I have to write it all myself  
> Anyway, thanks for reading, tell me what you think :D


End file.
